


Never Call Retreat

by alamorn, FeoplePeel



Category: Deadwood
Genre: F/M, Gen, Marriage of Convenience, POV Multiple, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 00:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: "A good businessman never makes a contract unless he's sure he can carry it through, yet every fool on earth is perfectly willing to sign a marriage contract without considering whether he can live up to it or not."





	1. EB Farnum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chelseagirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelseagirl/gifts).



> In most ways, this fic has tried to be as canon-typical as possible. Canon-typical language, ableism, misogyny, antisemitism, alcoholism, etc. There are no racial slurs, and less than canon-typical sex and violence.

Oh, it was a terrible day, wretched, excruciating, a day that would be writ in blood in Deadwood’s history as the day that liberty died, for liberty had not died with statehood, with emancipation, or even with William Hearst’s clutching hands, with gold trapped under his nails and in the lines and creases of his palm, no, Deadwood had survived even that, stood and shuddered on, a little shaken, a little tamed, but no less filthy with life. Deadwood would die not with the bang of the executioner judge’s gavel, not with the boom of the mines, but with a simper.

“I do,” and the knife would be down, Deadwood castrated, as simple as that! Who could have foreseen such a cruel, undignified end? Who could have wished for such a precipitous and ignoble drop? Tie the noose, call the guard, line up the soldiers, send down the cannons, for Deadwood was a shambling corpse, walking straight into its coffin, the grave already dug!

Woe! Woe! This foul, fetid, fuming swamp that EB had made his home would be spritzed with ladies’ perfume, cheeks rouged, tight-laced into a funeral gown! Trim its nails, wash behind the ears, draw those long and snaggled teeth from that greedy mouth, leave it gummy and doddering, tottering on thin heels, complaining a woman’s complaints!

A school, a bank, and now what would become of the saloon, the whores? Would they be bathed, and spritzed, and sent on their way? The whiskey poured into the mud, the -- the….

Richardson wasn’t listening. EB gave him a kick to get his attention, and Richardson scampered away a few steps, pulling out that insipid antler.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Richardson said.

“Of course you do!” EB cried. “You’re a fool, a moron, a drooling simpleton! You have no conception of the destruction that will be wrought upon our beautiful town!”

“Maybe Mrs. Ellsworth will start smiling again,” Richardson said.

“Who could smile while sharing a bed with that egotistical monster?” EB demanded. “Her womanly spirit has misled her once more, and as terrible as their joining will be, their separation would be worse! Go! Get! Leave me!” He kicked Richardson once more and watched him scramble out the door.

It was the work of only a moment for the flush of satisfaction to leave him. This was news too important to keep to himself, and with Richardson gone, there was no one to tell.  _ Had _ the news already spread? Was he the last to learn, as he always was, excluded and degraded by the egos of his fellow townsfolk?

Who else knew? Had they arranged the wedding without him? Was Mrs. Ellsworth to become Mrs. Swearengen not in EB’s lobby, but in the Gem’s? The school house? Would her flower bearer be that whore she was so fond of? Who would hand her away this time?

The gorge rose in his throat.  _ Who else knew? _ Had the word been sent out on the wire, flying faster than the eye could see, slipping across the country with the same greasy ease as the deal?

He had to know. He fumbled his way into his coat and strode out the door. Richardson wouldn’t have gone far, not when he felt the need to thank his false pagan god for Mrs. Ellsworth’s new marriage. The rest of the world might escape EB’s grasp, but there was a wonderfully reliable tedium to Richardson.

Who would be the last to know, if not EB? Al would make sure to rub Cy’s nose in it -- nothing could add the air of legitimacy to their business like a marriage to the  _ bank _ and the noble lady that established it. And Mrs. Ellsworth, loose-lipped bawd that she was, would have told her whore friend and likely her former lover. And wouldn’t that be a treat? If Seth Bullock didn’t pull his gun at the nuptials, EB would eat his cravat.

So who?

EB’s feet answered for him, taking him to Tom Nuttall’s bar. This early in the morning it was sparsely attended, Harry Manning lingering behind the bar, and Steve in his wheelbarrow at a table, bottle of whiskey propped in front of him. For once, Steve didn’t reek of piss, which EB took as an omen --  perhaps he was not last to hear, after all!

“I would bid you good morning, gentleman, save that this morning is not good at all!” he cried. Tom and Harry traded glances, and Tom leaned forward against the bar.

“What’s the fuss for, EB?” Tom asked, seemingly disinterested. EB’s hopes rose -- if Tom knew, he would be mourning alongside EB. Or perhaps he was a better actor than EB had ever suspected, and merely waiting to make his blow all the more deadly. No -- EB did not let his rooms on credit, and he wasn’t going to give Tom any either.

“A wedding!” EB wailed. “A horrible wedding! One that will drown our fair Deadwood in blood!”

“Who’s getting married?” Harry said, suddenly interested. “I haven’t heard anything about new women in town.”

“Not a new woman,” EB gloated. Not the last, after all! “Mrs. Ellsworth takes a third husband. If he falls, we shall have a veritable black widow on our hands, gentlemen!”

“Well, go on then, who is it?” Tom prodded.

EB savored the moment. “None other than the last man you would see made honest! Our very own Al Swearengen,  _ trapped _ in matrimony!”

“Ah, you’re shitting us,” Tom said, leaning back. “Go on, get out. It’s not a slow enough morning to let you pull my leg like that.”

“I swear on my soul, sirs!” EB protested. “I heard it myself just this hour, from the lady’s own lips. A  _ month _ , she said, to plan the event, and it will be done!”

“You heard her say  _ I do _ ?” Harry asked. “Lots of events they could be planning. Maybe they’ll start backing pussy with gold, so’s you know you’re getting your money’s worth.”

“Pah! You’ll see!” EB strode out of the bar well-pleased. Not only was he not the last to know, he could well be the first! To be the first was worth the indignity of the widow Ellsworth keeping her rooms in his hotel, mocking him as she conducted her business above his dead, though she spent the night in her home, the expense meant as a slap to EB’s face.

But the idea that it could be a different event niggled at him like his rotten tooth, an insistent distraction. He had to know. What else could the bank be involved in? Was the widow Ellsworth dipping her gold covered fingers into whore’s cunts? A cunt painted in gold would be no use as a cunt at all, hard and cold and forbidding. It was unthinkable, unconscionable.

EB headed for the bank, worry twisting his stomach.

The widow Ellsworth was not there. Only the whore Trixie was, sitting in her teller’s dress as if she had the breeding for such work.

She looked up at him, rolled her eyes, and looked back to her work. 

“Trixie,” EB said, “a favor.”

“Not for you, EB,” she said. “You sold your hotel, you don’t need a loan.”

“A bit of knowledge, kind Trixie. A confirmation, if you will.”

“EB,” Trixie said, finally looking at him, and doing so with none of a woman’s proper gentleness. “Spit it the fuck out, or get the fuck out.”

Obviously Al had left some of his ill temper in her when he’d filled her with his seed. “Fine. Is the bank having an event in a month?”

“No,” she said. “Why the hell would we have an  _ event _ ? We’re a bank. People give us their money and get more money out and then give it back.”

The first to know! EB could hardly keep himself from crowing. “Perhaps you should ask your taskmaster what event will take place in the coming month, then, for  _ she _ certainly has one.”

“Say what you mean, EB,” Trixie said, disinterested.

“A wedding,” EB said. “Betwixt the widow Ellsworth and the venerable Al Swearengen. At last, Trixie, your loyalties will lie in bed together.”

Her gaze cut through him, and he remembered all of a sudden that she’d shot Hearst, that she’d killed every client that had raised a hand to her. EB scuttled backwards. “Well, good day, Trixie, must be off.”

“Don’t you  _ fucking dare _ , EB,” she snapped, rising from her desk, but he was already out the door.

Victory was his. He was the first to know.


	2. Silas Adams

When Al and the widow Ellsworth departed from the hotel table to speak upstairs, Silas was left with the unenviable task of breaking his fast with a child. The little girl had dined with deadlier men than he, for certain, but he had no experience with persons her age. When the minutes ran into a half an hour, Silas grew anxious. He had errands to run and, while Sophia seemed to entertain herself well enough, he felt a disquiet about leaving her.

"Ain't you got schoolin'?"

"Mrs. Bullock takes me," Sophia said, pushing her empty plate on the table back and forth. From their place in line people were giving them dirty looks and Silas shot one right back.

"Where is Mrs. Bullock?" Silas pushed back from the table, grabbing up both of their plates and depositing them in the kitchen.

Sophia slid from her seat, staying surprisingly close to his heel. "At her house?"

"Well, ain't no sense goin' there." He cast a glance upstairs. It couldn't be terribly important, or else they'd be more private about it, meet at the Gem at least. But that they were meeting in Ms. Ellsworth's quarters spoke to a more personal nature, and Silas felt guilty interrupting. "Let's go find Trixie."

The short walk down the thoroughfare seemed interminable, the minutes dragging out with a small creature of concern by his knee. He was used to keeping his eye on things, but not like this. How did mothers, especially the mothers of Deadwood, do it, he wondered. 

He nearly slipped on the muck under his heels as a small hand shot out and grasped the fabric of his breeches, tugging hard. Not a moment too soon, as a cart shoved into the spot where he would have been standing.

“Watch it, Adams!” A dirtied man he recognized as Logan, Ben Tucker’s younger brother, and a supplies man Al trusted fairly well not to bleed him dry, began to unload boxes of dried goods onto the side of the road.  

So caught up in his thoughts had he been...Silas shook his head at his own ineptitude and turned to tip his head in gratitude at Sophia.

“Appreciate the warning, littlun’.”

Sophia nodded back, unsmiling, unfazed, and it was easier in that moment to see how Deadwood had shaped her.

 

The bank was empty, save Trixie, who was in a foul mood. She always was, to Silas’ mind, but she had her people like everyone. Silas never bothered trying to be one, but he knew Sophia had that whore’s heart since the moment she’d laid eyes on her. They looked so similar to Silas that he’d forgiven those passing through town for mistaking Trixie for the girl’s mama, specially on the days when Trixie was more well-kept or Sophia was dressed down.

Whatever dark cloud had settled over Trixie’s face disappeared for only a moment so’s she could set Sophia on her knee and stroke her hair away from her face and pluck at her nose with playful mirth. Then she looked at Silas. Silas knew of Trixie's anger more from hearsay than sight. By the time he was a regular at Al's side, she was inching her way out the door. He'd heard that fatalities at the Gem fell sharply when she stopped whoring, and of course he knew what she'd done to Hearst. This was the first he'd seen that in her--the icy rage, the calm that could hold a hand steady as it aimed a gun or pulled a knife. She was furious about something, had taken that fury and coiled it up tightly inside herself, and was directing it all, now, at Silas.

“What are you doing here?”

Silas cleared his throat, a nervous broken thing like an instrument long misused. “Al and the widow are in a meeting. Considering I didn’t know when they’d be done, I thought this one ought to be gettin’ on--hey, where are you goin’?”

Trixie had deposited Sophia on the floor gently as she could, her motions after that being anything but. “Where the hell do you think.  _ Fixing _ this mess.”

“What mess?”

Trixie didn’t answer, slamming drawers shut and rubbing a hand over Sophia’s in quick apology. “It ain’t just him, darling. Boys don’t know anything, as a general rule.”

Silas felt the muscles of his face twitch in protest, but he didn’t bother trying to stop her leaving. He’d have an easier time of stopping Logan Tucker’s supply cart with his winning smile. “ _ Like I said _ , don’t know how long they’ll be meeting. If’n you’ll take care of this one, I’ll go back and--”

“Look what happened, last time I left this job to you.” She threw her shawl over her shoulders. “I know where to find them when they’re done. You  _ watch  _ this one, Adams.”

Silas stood in the middle of the bank, feeling as though a tornado had been kind enough to carve a path around him, leaving him relieved and a little bewildered. Sophia’s foot banging against the wood grain of the bank counter drew his attention.

“Reckon I oughta…,” Silas took a breath through his teeth. “If I drop you off at the corner, can you make it the rest of the way to the schoolhouse?”

Sophia nodded obligingly, pushing away from the counter and joining him by the door.

“Well, all right then.”

 

He’d stop at Shaunessey’s, he decided. A very close walk to the schoolhouse, but far enough away so as not to disturb the other children. Anyone who gave him a longer look than he liked would regret it once the child was out of his care and custody.

He made it as far as The Gem. He figured he’d have that engraved on his tombstone one day,  _ Here Lies Damned Silas Adams: He made it to the Gem Saloon here in Deadwood, Dakota Territory, and not much farther. _

The reason for this was, as ever, Al Swearengen, who was shouting from his lordly place on the balcony, Trixie three paces behind him looking grim, jaw clenched.

“Al Swearengen is getting fucking married!” he said to the street. “First page fucking news, tell your friends, if you’ve got any, you ugly cunts!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Jessie Butler, who was shaping up to be the next town drunk, said from the middle of the street, prick in hand. Silas turned Sophia away from the scene, partly to shield her, but to gather himself as well.

Luckily Bullock’s partner was in the hardware store.

“Watch her, would ya?” Silas watched Star’s genial smile dissolve into bemused acceptance; likely a byproduct of working with Bullock for so many years. 

Star’s hands came up to frame Sophia’s shoulder’s, a steadying, supportive gesture, and already more practiced than Silas by miles. “I don’t--”

“Look it’s just til Trixie gets done across the road, shouldn’t be but a minute.” Silas dipped a quick nod to Sophia who, to his surprise, gave a small curtsy in return.

He waited outside the hardware store, watched Al hold Trixie’s hand, looking up at her with, if not tenderness, than solemnity. Silas felt as though he was watching a blood pact and had somehow missed the open wounds. When Al’s face broke into a familiar smirk and he left her with a wink, Silas followed at a safe distance into the Gem, keeping an even safer space between himself and Trixie as she passed.

Silas stopped to check on Dan first, pinch-lipped and surely digging a hole into the wood by how deep his palm was circling above the bar with a cloth. Silas didn’t speak, not sure what he could have said anyway, but his silence allowed time for Dan to calm, gaze drifting from the door of Al’s office to the stairs and, finally, to Silas.

“It ain’t right,” he said. “He ain’t thinkin’ right.” 

“I’m to figure, then,” Silas ran the tips of his fingers through his beard, a sudden itch coming upon him. “You only now heard about this too?”

“Says he only just found out his own self. And given that woman’s history an’ all, Al oughta know better.” Dan pointed a finger at Silas. “It ain’t right.”

“Considering you and he are tied to the grief of the widow’s history, I have to imagine he’s given it some thought.” Dan tilted his head, opening his mouth to argue. Silas held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll talk to him, you goddamn mother hen.”

“Good,” Dan went back to wiping. “Don’t pretend it doesn't worry you, Adams. I saw you run across here like you had burrs in your ass.”

Silas knocked twice and the gruff, muffled beckon told him that Al was somewhere in his bedroom.

“What is it?” Al emerged as Silas entered. “Good, you’re here.”

“I’m here.” Silas said. The whiskey in Al’s office was already out, two empty glasses across from one another like a standoff. Al was kind enough to put away the one Trixie must have been drinking from, fetching Silas something newer and less fractured. “You gonna tell me what that was all about?”

“You didn’t hear?” Al raised his own glass, full to the top now. “I’m getting married.”

“Oh, I heard.”

Al gave him a long, appraising look, settling into his seat behind the desk. Silas sat in the chair across from Al’s and set his own glass on the desk, spilling a few drops. “You ever been married, Adams?”

“Never felt the need.” Silas said, turning his glass. “And I can’t say the past few years have done much to change my mind.”

“Alma  _ Garret... _ Alma  _ Ellsworth _ ,” Al tapped his finger against the desk and Silas waited. The man always reached a point. “You spend much time with the woman? No, course you haven’t.”

“Got my fill of thrill seeking in with Miss Isringhausen.”

“Watch it, Adams, that’s nearly a joke she’d enjoy.” Al filled his cup back up, and stared at Silas’ glass until he felt obliged to toss it back. “There are  _ a rare few _ benefits to matrimony”

Silas waited, again, as Al refilled their glasses and shot him a beseeching look. After the whiskey was down once more, Al sighed. 

“Monetary, I mean. Less in cold hard cash, as she’s wrapped her money in layers of lawyers, but her respectability will rub off. Grant a man some opportunities. Open some doors.”

“I know what you mean, Al.” Silas drank again, feeling no less settled. “Congratulations, then.”

“If I wanted your congratulations I’d be downstairs shouting with the rest of the hoopleheads,” Al said. “I need your backing, as a history of violence seems a consequence of the woman whose name it comes attached to, and I now seek to tie my name to that very same.”

“Seems like asking for trouble.”

“Less so, if I’ve your  _ assurance  _ that similar missteps will not occur in future endeavours.”

This time, Silas poured the whiskey. “What do you want me to do?”


	3. Trixie

Trixie let herself into Al’s office and sat in front of the desk to wait for him. She kept her gun tucked under a fold of her skirt, since she wasn't sure if she could bring herself to shoot, and she wouldn't show Al the barrel until she was pulling the trigger. Al was too ornery to die if he had any sort of warning, so she wouldn't give him any.

She waited for a while, nerves buzzing, until Al slammed in, shouting over his shoulder at Dan. He stopped when he saw her and closed the door carefully.

“What the fuck are you doing here, then?” he asked, settling himself behind his desk and pulling out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“I can't offer my congratulations to the groom?” she asked, taking the glass he poured her with her left hand. He watched her do it and her fingers clenched around the gun in her lap.

“Of course she fucking told you,” he said, drinking his own glass. “I'm surrounded by yammering cunts.”

“Don't call her that,” Trixie snapped, her fingers tightening convulsively. She didn’t correct him. Maybe Alma still would tell her -- maybe she just hadn’t had the chance yet. And maybe she would only tell Trixie when she was sending out invitations. No matter what, Trixie wasn’t going to admit to  _ Al _ that she’d heard from E.B.  _ fucking _ Farnum.

“Or what?” Al said, pouring himself a second glass. “What'll you do, Trixie? What is she worth to you?”

Trixie set her jaw. She hadn't forgotten the blood on his floor, what he'd done for her. Neither had she forgotten what he'd done  _ to  _ her. “You won't call her names, and you won't hurt her.”

“You give her such a warning? She has a worse record with husbands than I do with wives.”

“Don’t be glib,” she said. “Not now.”

He eyed her over his glass, a long moment that stretched longer as she waited, the gun warm in her hand like a living thing, the child she never had, the babies she’d rejected. Some of them might have been Al’s, and they all would have belonged to him, had she borne them. There could have been a child between them, with her bloody hands and Al’s bloody mind. Instead there was only the gun, grip slippery in her sweating palm.

“I have no plans against her,” he said, eventually, setting his glass down almost gently. His voice was...not tender, but intimate. “I made my suit and she accepted, much to my surprise. It’s an alliance, that’s all. If you still feel the need to aerate my skull, I’ll understand, and I’ll give you your shot before I call Dan. You’ve earned that.”

Trixie blinked away a threat of tears. “That a standing offer?”

“Well, why the fuck not?” he said, busying himself with his whiskey, pouring them both another glass. “Keep me honest.”

“That’s a thankless fucking job,” she said, and took the whiskey with her right hand, leaving the gun in her lap. They didn’t toast, but he nodded at her, and they drank together. When they tapped the glasses on his desk, Al sprang to his feet.

“Well, since you’re here, might as well get a fucking start on it,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to accuse me of being a lollygagging cocksucker, or some such shit.”

“What are you up to now?” she asked.

“I’ve got to announce the goddamn engagement sometime, don’t I?” Al said, pulling her to her feet and palming her gun in the same motion. He handed it back when she caught her balance. “Don’t lose that, now, or you’ll have a hell of a time keeping me honest.” He clapped his hands. “Come on now.”

He went first to the balcony and Trixie tucked her gun down the front of her dress as she watched. “Al Swearengen is getting fucking married!” he hollered into the street. “First page fucking news, tell your friends, if you’ve got any, you ugly cunts!”

“Shut the fuck up!” a drunk shouted back from where he was pissing in the middle of the street.

Al turned back to her with a shrug and a grin. “Fucking Deadwood,” he said, as much warmth in his voice as Trixie’d ever heard.

Then he pulled her down the back stairs into Merrick’s newsroom, making the big man jump.

“Should I send a telegram, Trixie? Inform the in-laws?”

She stared at him, uncertain what to do with this manic energy. She’d expected one of them to end up perforated, and hadn’t been sure which option she’d prefer. This was beyond her imaginings.

“Ah,” he said, “I’ll let the missus take that one. Merrick, some news. Al Swearengen is getting married!”

Merrick’s eyes got huge. “Is this a joke?”

“No, no jokes now,” Al said. “Except inasmuch as the institution of marriage is a joke. And we’ll see how long it lasts -- my lovely bride-to-be has quite a history of short-lived husbands.”

“Will you give me the copy, as usual, or shall I write it up myself?” Merrick asked, fair trembling with excitement.

“Write it yourself, Merrick,” Al said magnanimously. “And make it pretty. The lady likes pretty.”

Merrick clutched his notepad. “Of course, of course, but tell me...who is the lady?”

Trixie clenched her jaw. Al beamed at her. “Why, Mrs. Ellsworth, formerly Mrs. Garrett, is collecting one more name. Now, I have to hope it’ll be the last, but I don’t like my chances, do you?”

Merrick dropped his pencil.

“I expect to see the news on the front page tomorrow,” Al said, towing Trixie out of the newsroom as Merrick sputtered behind them. “Now,” he said to Trixie as they emerged into the stinking mud of the morning, “what else can I do to prove myself to you?”

She planted her feet and made him turn to face her. Her fury and fear had drained, leaving only the soap scum of exhaustion. “Sophia. What will you do to Sophia?”

“The girl’s in no more danger from me than her mother,” Al said. “And I’ll stay out of her way until such time as I’m told not to. That this is not a face to give a child sweet dreams, you do not need to tell me.”

Trixie chewed the inside of her cheek. “She won’t grow up to be one of your girls.”

Al didn’t -- he didn’t go soft, because Al would only ever go soft with corpse rot, but he -- he took Trixie’s hand and squeezed. “If she ever did, I’m sure the widow Swearengen would have more help than just yours.”

Trixie jerked her chin in a nod, eyes burning. Al squeezed her hand one more time and dropped it.

“If you’re satisfied, I’ve got a full fucking day,” Al said, and left her with a wink.

Trixie stared blankly at the mud of the street before her until a cart driver hollered at her. After shouting back at him, she started walking without much thought as to where. She  _ should _ go back to the bank, but she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, or dealing with the worst of Deadwood’s hoopleheads.

When she found herself entering the hardware store, she realized there was nowhere else she could have gone. Sophia was behind the counter, counting change into neat stacks. Sol was straightening merchandise, rather poorly, as he seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes on his work, rather than Sophia.

“Fucking Jew,” Trixie murmured fondly, striding over to Sophia to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Of course you set her to counting money.”

“It’s not like I have much in the way of toys around here,” Sol said mildly. “I didn’t think her mother’d like it if she caught her dress on a pair of shears.”

Sophia leaned out of Trixie’s arms and looked up with her huge blue eyes. “Mr. Silas didn’t know what to do with me either. Mr. Star is calmer.”

“Sol’s calmer?” Trixie eyeballed the mess Sol had made of his store, a mess he would have chewed her out for making. “Silas must have been a mess.”

“He nearly got run over by a cart.”

Sol snorted from where he was pretending to work. Trixie felt her own lips twitch in amusement. The tightness in her chest was finally starting to loosen. “The way these men are treating you, you’d think you’re something scary. You been showing them your teeth, Sophia?”

Obligingly, Sophia bared her teeth in a grimace.

“Very scary,” Trixie said solemnly. “It all makes sense now.”

The bell rang and Trixie glanced over her shoulder. Unfortunately, it was Seth, rather than a customer. As usual, Trixie resolved to ignore him as long as possible. He made it easy, by nodding at her and Sophia and going over to Sol to talk quietly.

“Now, Sophia, you listening?”

Sophia nodded, eyes locked on Trixie’s.

“You heard the news? That Al’s gonna marry your momma?” There was a crash behind her, a hissed, “What the  _ fuck _ ?” and Trixie plowed over it with the ease of practice once Sophia shook her head. “Yeah, they just decided. And I’m sorry not to let your momma be the one to tell you, but I wanted to make sure you knew -- Al ever raises a hand to you or your momma, ever raises his  _ voice _ , does anything you don’t like at all, you tell me, you got it? You tell me, and I’ll take care of it.”

Sophia stared at her intently for a moment longer. “I understand.”

“I don’t,” Seth said, from closer behind her than Trixie cared for. “Alma’s marrying Al?”

“That’s Mrs. Ellsworth to you,” Trixie said, turning to face him down. “They ain’t married yet.”

“Is he blackmailing her?” he demanded.

“She  _ accepted _ him, Seth Bullock,” Trixie snarled, jabbing her finger into Seth’s chest. “You want to stop this? You shoulda done it more’n a year ago! Shoulda kept Ellsworth alive!”

Sophia made a soft noise of distress and Trixie turned back to her, stomach sinking. “I’m sorry, honey. I miss him too.”

Sophia looked away from her and Trixie shook her head. “This is your fault,” she told Seth. “Fix it.” Heart racing, hands trembling, she stormed out to smoke and go back to work.


	4. Seth Bullock

Alma was getting married. Again. To Al fucking Swearengen.

And Sophia looked to be - not quite on the edge of tears, and Seth was not rightly sure that the girl  _ could _ cry. If she could, he’d never seen it, and he’d seen her at some pretty low times. But she looked sad, for certain, her little hands twisting in her little lap, piles of coins abandoned.

“Come on,” Seth said, offering her his hand. “Let’s go find your mother.”

Sophia looked at him. “I’m supposed to be in school.”

“All right,” Seth said. “I’ll take you there, and then go let your mother know you made it safe.”

She nodded and took his hand.

Sophia walked quickly for her size, but she was little and her skirts made her strides even shorter. No matter his confusion or frustration, it was impossible to be angry with Sophia, especially for merely being what she was.

Sophia did not talk on the way to the school, and her silence gave Seth time to think. And to calm -- he would not make the same mistake of charging into the Gem and wrestling Al off the balcony and into the mud. He had no more children to save him, and the memory made the old ache flare up once more. 

Sophia was not his, and he could not pretend she was, but he did not think Al would try to claim her.

When they came to the school house, Sophia stopped and looked at him. “Thank you for walking me to school,” she said carefully.

“You’re welcome, Sophia,” Seth said, unable to keep from smiling.

She looked as if she were thinking of saying something more, but changed her mind before the words could make their way from her chest. Instead she turned and went inside. He waited until she took her seat and Martha smiled at him, and then, with only a pang of guilt, he turned to find Alma.

Martha had forgiven him his heart. He wasn’t sure she’d forgive him a murder, if that’s where this ended. If that was how it seemed likely to go, he would talk to Charlie, make sure she’d be taken care of once he was gone. He wasn’t sure what Deadwood would do with a murderous Sheriff, but Seth knew what  _ he _ would do.

He knocked on Alma’s door harder than he intended.

“A moment,” she called, and took that moment, long enough to set Seth’s tension higher than before. 

When she opened the door, she was in no disarray, and there was no other in the room. She waited patiently for his eyes to land on her once more, amusement curling her lips. “How do you do, Sheriff Bullock? How may I help you?”

“How do you do,” he replied automatically. “Mrs. Ellsworth, I just wanted to...let you know that I escorted Sophia safely to school.”

“Ah,” she said, “so Silas couldn’t manage it? I admit I’m unsurprised; it’s remarkably easy to make a dangerous man afraid, I’ve found, so long as you have the right lever.” She looked him over fondly. “Come in, Sheriff. I know that’s not all that’s on your mind.”

Hesitantly, he followed her in and took a seat awkwardly across from her. He felt, for the first time, like they were adversaries. She was showing him the smooth, amused face he had seen her aim only at those she was battling. It was a far cry from the open delight they had shared, and he didn’t care for it.

“I also wished to offer you my congratulations,” he said stiffly.

“No, you didn’t,” she said. “Tea?”

“No, thank you. Tell me why I’m here, then.”

Her amusement grew, though her smile didn’t, nor did she laugh. It was a warmth in her eyes, but it wasn’t directed at him. “You came to see if I was coerced, blackmailed, or threatened. Possibly extorted? I’m sure you’ve thought of many reasons why I might be marrying once more against my will.”

“Are you?”

“No, Seth,” she said, and the familiarity, the reminder of what he’d lost made his breath catch in his chest. “This is my will. Al and I both lost greatly to Hearst. Is it so foreign that we might find common ground?”

“Frankly? Yes.”

She glanced across the room, out the window. It faced the Gem, and he wondered if that was how it had begun -- the two of them observing Deadwood from above, separately and then together. Would he walk past the Gem and see Alma and Al, side by side on the balcony? Al had always stopped just short of styling himself the king of Deadwood, but where would he stop when he’d married himself into respectability?

“He made his suit very prettily. I responded with a threat,” she said. “A joke.”

“I don’t see much laughter.”

“No,” she demurred, eyes cast down, then meeting his squarely once more. “You wouldn’t. Can that be enough for you, Seth? May I keep my own counsel in this one thing?”

He found he couldn’t look at her. 

Alma sighed. “That was...unfair of me. I apologize. Look at me, Seth.” Reluctantly, he did. “It would be cruel of me to ask you to be part of the wedding, I know, but would you...make sure that nothing happens to disrupt it?”

Seth had long ago given up trying to predict what inconveniences Deadwood could put forward, but many of them centered on Al. He could understand her concerns, and shared them, though they evidently saw different solutions. “Fine,” he said, jaw clenching around the word. 

She studied him for a long moment, then softened suddenly, her shoulders dropping. “If you must blame someone, as I know you do, blame Hearst. I accepted Al’s suit because of him.”

“Hearst is gone,” Seth said.

“Hearst is not the only one of his kind.” She stood suddenly and paced to the window to gaze at something Seth couldn’t see. “I was  _ afraid _ , Seth. We, all three of us, went in to face him alone, and all three walked out lessened. He  _ took _ from us, my property, Al’s finger, Deadwood’s pride. Al made the case that a united front would be harder to breach.”

Seth followed her to the window and found himself staring at the balcony, picturing Alma on it. “He’s using you.”

She laughed. “Of course he is. And I am using him.” She glanced sidelong at him, almost flirtatious. “That  _ is _ what a marriage is. You should know that already.”

“I suppose I do,” he conceded. 

For the first time, she touched him, reaching out and taking his hand. “Thank you, Seth. For your concern. And for sublimating your more violent urges.”

Unable to respond, he just nodded, squeezing her hand tightly before dropping it and heading for the door, hat clenched in hand. He’d hoped the visit would bring clarity, would show him an agreeable path of action, but he strode out of the hotel no happier than he’d walked in.

Charlie would be at his store at this time of day, less some trouble Seth hadn’t heard, and Charlie would know better what to do. The word was out, so there was no chance of a quiet wedding, not that Al Swearengen would be capable of such a thing.

Seth didn’t think he could bear planning wedding protections for Alma to Al, not when his idea of protecting her would be to keep the two of them far apart. Hearst explained a little, but not all. He still couldn’t quite understand how they had come to discuss such a thing. As far as he knew, they’d only met a handful of times, and hardly in the sort of circumstance that would bring matrimony to mind. 

There was too much he didn’t know about Alma, he realized slowly. She’d always been somewhat opaque to him, but this...he didn’t know her even as well as he’d thought. He hadn’t realized she was still afraid, though he’d known she’d taken back to her rooms at the hotel, that filled her day to bursting.

It felt a small tragedy, not quite enough to stop him in his tracks, but a sharp sorrow that put a hitch in his step. He’d thought he’d left their time together behind him with Martha, with Ellsworth, but Al was another thing entirely.

He didn’t know this woman he’d once loved. He didn’t know her at all.

It wouldn’t stop him from making sure she was safe on her wedding day.


	5. Jane Cannary

Jane Cannary was a no-good drunk who had not yet met a bar so low she couldn’t sidle on under, half-conscious and half-hungover, but she was not so bad as to hear that Al Swearengen was going to be Sophia’s new father, Sophia, whose first father he’d killed, and fail to go see a man with a gun.

She had the gun, to clarify. Well, he had guns too, but she had less to lose. For one thing, she wasn’t getting married.

She rode as fast for Deadwood as her horse would take her, leaving her path marked with drained whiskey skins, Gretel turned to a drunken sot in her age. But Swearengen was no witch, and the Gem no candy house, and besides, who cared for metaphors? She’d kill him dead and that was all there was to it.

When she knew she was nearing Deadwood, she pushed her horse harder, rode longer into the night, until they crested the hill and saw the stinking morass of the town spread out before them. The late afternoon light made it almost beautiful, gilding the buildings with gold and covering the imperfections of the street with a syrupy glow. Without her bidding, her eyes found Chez Amie and she had to shake her head to ward off the cloud of shame and hope and fear that descended upon her. Only Sophia mattered.

“Yah!” She kicked her horse into movement, an easy plod that the mare wouldn’t speed from, now that she knew how near she was to a stable and easy living. 

They ambled into town, Jane irate, mare placid, and Jane abandoned the wretched creature at the livery. “You take good care of her, you hear?” she hollered at the Little General. “If'n I come back and find the beast anything less than spoiled, I won't share my best bottle with you!”

He didn't quite laugh at her, but his grave nod didn't hide his grin. “Sugar cubes and the finest hay,” he told her. “You here for the wedding? Cutting it a bit close.”

“Here to stop the damned thing,” Jane said, resettling her belt and checking her guns. 

“Good luck with that,” Fields said. “Damn near everyone in town's already taken their shot and the ceremony continues apace.”

“I'm a better shot than most,” Jane told him. “And you talk too fucking much! I've got a girl to protect and a man to kill.”

“Best not get those two mixed up,” Fields called to her back as she strode out into the street. Jane spat. Even drunk she’d be able to tell the two apart. Even dead.

It would likely be a tactical move to gather some fucking reinforcements before she took her shot, and the devil took the rest. She swung herself around to head for Charlie's store..

It wasn’t a surprise to find Joanie, just inside the door. Charlie mentioned, in his letters, how she liked to come by sometimes in the evenings and sort the letters. She was lonely, if Jane had to guess, and of the few friends she had in Deadwood, Charlie was somehow the one she found most comfort with. Jane would never understand it, as Charlie had spent years causing  _ her _ nothing but upsets.

Still, here she was to ask for his help, so how did that look?

“Jane,” Joanie turned and smiled, and said her name the way she always did: a quiet, delighted exclamation, as though she were pleased to see her.

It wasn’t a surprise, but it caused Jane’s stomach to sink past her boots anyway. She’d not acquitted herself well at their last meeting, sneaking out of Joanie’s bed in the dark of night with not so much as a “by your leave.”

“It’s good to see you,” Joanie said. She looked less sad than she sometimes did, her mouth no longer pulled down at the corners quite so hard.

“Joanie,” Jane said, her voice embarrassingly raw. “You’re looking fine.”

“Wish I could say the same for you. When’s the last time you bathed?”

Jane shrugged uncomfortably. “Where’s that fussy fucking hen?”

“He stepped out for a moment. Everyone’s busy with the wedding preparations -- or trying to be busy, anyway. It’s quite the talk of the town, and everyone wants to be involved.”

“Charlie’s helping with the wedding? Charlie, who helped me save Sophia’s life from that man? I’ll kill him too, then!”

“It’ll be you or my heart,” Charlie said, coming in behind her and clapping her shoulder as he passed. “I’m getting too old to run around like this. Good to see you upright, Jane.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jane hollered, hand going to her gun. She had the bullets to spare.

“Exactly what it sounds like. Now, either put me out of my misery, or move out of the doorway.” He raised his eyebrows at her.

Jane glanced between him and Joanie, who seemed not at all worried. With a sigh, she wiped her hands on her pants and moved out of the door and into an open chair. “What the hell is going on here, Charlie Utter?”

“Near as I can tell, it’s an alliance,” he said, kicking her foot until she pulled her legs back from their sprawl. Joanie took her hand, carefully, and gave it a squeeze. Jane squeezed back and didn’t let go. “Mrs. Ellsworth doesn’t seem under duress, and she asked Seth to keep things running smooth. Seth asked me, so I’ll have to take your gun before the ceremony, much as that confuses my fussy old soul.”

“It’s not right,” Jane said. “I’ve walked into the bottom of a bottle, there’s no other explanation.”

“It’s a vexatious situation to be sure,” Charlie said.

“You’ll feel better once you’re clean,” Joanie said and Jane, reluctantly, allowed Charlie to take her gun and Joanie to lead her out.

 

She wasn’t sure if she felt better clean, but she didn’t feel worse. And it turned out that Joanie hadn’t held her flight against her, and that felt pretty sweet all on its own.

Joanie argued and wrestled her into a dress once they were done with the bath and the apologies, and then Joanie argued her out the door, all the way down the street, and into the crowd around the hotel where the citizens of Deadwood were busily getting the wedding party started.

There was a great deal of liquor available, set out in bowls on tables, bottles scattered and passed hand to hand. Al had opened his stores, apparently, and Joanie, despite the quickness of her hands, could only steer Jane away from so many.

It was sweet that she was trying -- sweet, or something else, and Jane would decide later, when she was thirstier -- but Jane didn’t need the help. She wouldn’t drink until she’d seen Sophia, alive and well, and assured the girl that Jane would always be there to spirit her away, if she needed it.

She wove through the crowd, or, well, she shouldered her way through the crowd, Joanie close behind her, making her apologies for her. She shoved and swore her way to the door of the hotel and peered in.

The hotel was transformed with light, candles everywhere. Jane was a little surprised the whole building hadn’t gone up in a blaze of light, with the size of Alma’s skirts as she descended the stairs on the arm of Doc Cochrane.

Sophia was at the foot of the stairs, flowers woven into her hair, standing just behind and to the side of Al Swearengen, who was dressed nicer than Jane had ever seen. He stared up at Alma like she was more than a power play, more than an alliance, or her bank. It made Jane nervous, so she looked back to Sophia, who seemed unafraid.

There was a strange priest standing there to say the words, and suddenly Jane was drowning in the changes that had flooded Deadwood in her absence. She turned and shouldered her way back through the crowd, looking for something to drink, Joanie calling her name and grasping her arm.


	6. Alma

Alma hadn't had a drop of laudanum since before Ellsworth died, not for lack of wanting, but as a sort of repentance. He'd married her for kindness and died for it, and they could have grown to love each other, but they hadn't when he’d wed her, and she owed him so much. His life, for one. Staying away from laudanum was all she could think of to honor his memory, at least quietly, personally, between her and his ghost.

So she hadn't had laudanum in months, but she hadn't been married for nearly as long, and laudanum had been how she readied herself for the marriage bed. It made her skin feel ill-fit, like she might sweat it off and run into the night. It made her feel hot and tight and eager, like her teeth were too long for her mouth, like she was the hunter, instead of the prey.

She didn't know how she could go to bed with Al Swearengen without it. Possibly she should have considered it before proposing, or at least before following through.

She paused in the middle of his office, standing on a carpet she knew covered a bloodstain, and Al came up behind her, close enough to touch. He didn't, though, just stood there, breathing a little heavily. The dancing had both of their blood up, and she was flushed and energized, and not sure what to do with either.

She turned slowly, so their noses nearly brushed. “Has marriage changed you?”

His hand lifted an inch, as if to touch her cheek, then dropped. “You'll have to ask in the morning. I don't think it's had time to work yet.”

“Oh?” If she were loaded she would brush his nose with hers, lay her hands on his chest. Instead, she gathered her skirts and turned, sweeping over to his desk. She took his seat, to see what he would do. “The spirit of holy matrimony didn't fill you on the spot?”

He shrugged, followed her around the desk, and pulled a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a drawer. Once it was out he leaned back, in her space but not oppressively so. “It’s possible there were too many other spirits competing tonight and there wasn't enough room to spare. We’ll have to see when I dry out.” He slid a full glass over to her.

She picked it up with a smile, amused despite herself. “Just this once, I'll drink this,” she said, taking a sip and making a face at the bite, “but you've married into respectability now, and your whiskey should match.”

“Christ save me from fucking respectability,” he said and threw back his own drink. “It's not supposed to be  _ good _ , it's supposed to get you fucking pissed.”

“Language,” she said mildly.

“Sorry,” he said. “Knackered. Sodden.  _ Drunk _ .”

“You need to be drunk to face me?”

He laughed, short, sharp. “With a tongue that cutting, you won't need a gun to kill me. Trixie told you our deal?”

“One shot,” she said lightly. “Isn't that how every inebriate’s tale starts? One shot turns into more… I don't think she'll need it.”

“Oh?” He grinned his rogue's grin at her. “You trust me, Mrs. Swearengen?”

“One,” she said, taking another long swallow of her terrible whiskey, “does not need to trust Al Swearengen to look out for his own best interests. Come here.”

He eyed her and threw the rest of his drink back in one quick motion. The thunk of the glass on his desk was curiously loud -- Alma was aware, suddenly, of how quiet it was in this room, just the two of them, the music, the shouting, the dancing all very far away. All she could hear was her breathing, his, the small noises as he planted his hand on the desk and lowered himself to kneel before her skirts. One of his knees popped, the floor squeaked, and it was still. He looked up at her and she leaned forward, quite incapable of resisting. 

His hair was thick and greasy with pomade and she mapped the shape of his skull with her fingertips until she sat there, tilted forward so far their noses nearly brushed, hand cupping the back of his head, little finger pressing at the soft spot where skull and spine met. “You won't kill me,” she said. “It would quite defeat the point of all this, and besides, you wouldn't even know how.”

“Everyone dies,” he murmured, not a threat but a confession. “Deadwood is a town full of corpses who just don't know it yet. That the two of us have been lucky is not something to take for granted.”

“Thus the marriage?”

“Thus the marriage. I don't want a child, or a legacy. I want to live as long as I can, as well as I can, with as much money and power as I can get my grubby hands on.”

She picked up the self-same grubby hand, well scrubbed for the wedding, and kissed the knuckle of his missing finger. “You might want to wear gloves,” she said and he laughed, close enough that his whiskey spiced breath puffed against her lips.


	7. Coda: Jewel

Everyone who mattered in Deadwood was below her on the main floor of the Gem, making enough noise to hide any accidental dragging of her foot. Unfortunately, they were also making enough noise that she couldn’t hear very well from where she leaned next to the jam. A light laugh, Al’s voice rasping, too low to make out the words, and then a long silence.

She wanted to linger a moment longer, see if she could hear anything else, but Dan was sneaking his way up the stairs, as if the newlyweds would hear his footfalls over the party. 

“Give ‘em their privacy,” he hissed, starting to drag her away.

“So you don’t wanna hear what I heard?” she asked, grinning up at him.

“Didn’t say that,” he muttered.

She waited until they were on the ground floor and an audience had gathered around her before she said anything. Might as well get some free drinks out of the knowledge.


End file.
